


Avocados and Dates

by StripedScribe



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Dates, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hobbies, M/M, Pandemics, Quarantine, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/pseuds/StripedScribe
Summary: "I have decided, we need a hobby."A weekly tradition made, a time to just be free, to enjoy themselves and fall in love over and over again.A brief journey through the pandemic, and how hobbies can change, and enjoying life whilst at home.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: MattFoggy Server Telephone Game Event





	Avocados and Dates

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round one of the MattFoggy Telephone exchange!

“I have decided, we need a hobby.”

“We have hobbies?” Matt looked over to Foggy, his hand resting on the open page of their latest case. They’d brought work home, yet again, trying to cram as much study into their time before the court date. Across from him, Foggy was surrounded by sheets of paper, a system only he really understood.

“We don’t not really. We talk work all the time, or watch films, or do our own things. You’ve got your training, but that’s work, really, your night time activities can’t be classes as a hobby. Something new, we can do together, that doesn’t involve law, or getting drunk.”

“Hmm. We never got to date properly either.”

“Yes!” Foggy moved, too quickly, knocking sheet to the floor, excitement in his voice, “Yes, we can have dates. We can find hobbies, activities, things to do! We’ve got old and boring too soon Matty.”

“We’re not old, not yet. We’re doing good things Fogs.”

“I know, I know. But I’m worried we’re missing things too. Things that partners, that friends, that couples would do. We’re almost married, and we’ve still not been on a date, been out properly.”

“We went to the theatre that time.”

“With Karen.”

“The trip to see your parents?”

“We spent it all with my family. We do all the boring stuff together, which I love, I love you. But we need to have fun.”

“What do you have in mind?”

And with that, a weekly tradition was made. A day, or an evening a week, for fun. For trips out, for dressing up, or dressing down and getting mucky. Various parcels arrived, and Matt would try and guess what they were, before they were taken away, and hidden, ready for the right time. They’d add ideas to a list, picking one at random, or dependent on their mood and the weather, each week. As the rain poured down outside, Matt had left today’s activity for Foggy to prepare whilst he ventured out to the shops. Coming back soaked, but with coffees and shopping in hand, he immediately noticed a difference in the room.

“Okay, you may have noticed, I’ve rearranged.” A large space had been cleared in the centre of the room, and as Matt stepped closer, he could sense the crinkling of plastic on the floor. “This one might be a bit messy. We’re going to paint.”

“Paint.” Matt just looked in Foggy’s direction, confusion written on his face. “Forgotten something?”

“Nope, I saw it online. It’s called impasto. It’s almost painting, sort of like, sculpting a little? Thick paint, and you have to let it dry for days, and then it’s tactile. Oil based paints, so it takes ages to dry, and means we can have a bit more freedom. Get some art on these walls, which you can enjoy as well.”

As the warmth rose up his face, Matt really hoped it wasn’t noticeable to Foggy. “I should probably get some older clothes on, I can predict this getting messy.”

“I am suited up in my oldest sweats, you need to get ready and join me. It wouldn’t fit on the table, so we’re just going to paint on the floor, and hope we don’t make too much of a mess.” A quick change, and Matt returned, comfy joggers, fluffy socks, and a hoodie.

“Okay, how does this work?” He joined Foggy on the floor, sat side by side. Two canvases laid out in front of them, and an assortment of trays bottles and tools.

“A canvas each.” He started pointing to each object in turn, tapping them to mark their location. “We’ve got these tools here, brushes and painting knives.” These he passed to Matt to investigate, to work out their shape and how to use them. “Paints, and trays to get the paint out onto, so we can mix colours if we want, and pick it up easier. Although, I say colours, I thought it would be easier if we just went for greyscale? I was thinking then we can just get them out the bottles and onto trays, in order of light to dark?”

Again, with this blushing. “Sounds good to me Fogs.” The smile across his face was unmissable, and Foggy wished he could save it forever. And if almost as much paint ended up on each of them as it did on the canvas, then that was all part of the fun.

And at the end of their afternoon of painting, they moved the canvases, placing them aside to dry, cleaning up the area, moving furniture back in place. Their hair coloured with specks of grey paint, smudges on their faces and hands. A quick clean up, a shared shower, and onto dinner, preparing it together. Their paintings wouldn’t be dry for a few days still, time before Matt could truly see what they’d each created.

Once they were dry, the canvases found themselves pride of place on the wall. A talking point, and something Matt could appreciate, running his hands over them, finding shapes Foggy couldn’t see, the texture of the paint grounding him.

* * *

As the world shut down, they found themselves restless. Locked in at home, barely venturing outside for shopping. Quarantine had hit, and the office was closed. Some of their work continued, but with courts postponing cases, it was easier, quieter, and left them tighter on money. Thankful more than ever for the roof access, spending time cleaning, decorating, making themselves a space to relax when the sun was out.

Daredevil was staying in as well, the risk of Covid outweighing what little crime still remained. He still listened though, of an evening, calling in tips to the police where necessary. He wasn’t risking bringing it into their home.

“I’m bored Matt.” Laid out on the sofas, faces up at the sky. Work abandoned in between them, as they forced themselves to take a break. But it was never the same without somewhere else to go. They lived and worked all in the same area, their offices staying out overnight. Some days they barely even got dressed, pulling laptops into bed to work, calling Karen to work together. On others, they had calls, over the phone, or over video. On these days they had to do what they can to look somewhat presentable, tidy up their background. Especially for the court cases, held online, ruining Matt of his advantages.

“We’re all bored Fogs. What do you want to do?”

“So many things I can’t.” He sighed, sitting upright. “Something new.”

“Hobby time?”

“But what? I haven’t brought anything, and we can’t go anywhere.” Matt simply smirked in response, standing up. “Oh wait, your mysterious package?”

“Now, don’t laugh at this one. I know it’s probably out the ball park, but I was taught cross stitch when I was younger, at St Agnes. Some sort of simplified cross stitch, but it was relaxing. That probably won’t bring up the best memories, so embroidery sounded similar, and from what I felt of the kids who tried it, had a lot more freedom.” He brought back the parcel, unwrapping it, and pulling out a couple of boxes, labels marking them as embroidery kits.

“Okay, okay, no I’m on board.” Foggy started to clear their area, collecting paperwork and plugging laptops in to charge. “From what I’ve seen of it, it’s going to take some concentration, a welcome distraction.”

“I did go for beginners kits, I can’t remember what they are.” Dropping them on the table, he moved to the kitchen, preparing them both drinks. Foggy, having cleared the area, was having a look at the boxes, opening them and looking at instructions.

“Oh there’s a lot of info here, different stitches, how to transfer patterns. Oh that’s clever, heat erasable pens.”

Carrying over their coffees, he settled down on the couch next to his partner, placing them on the table. “You choose one Fogs, I’ll have to go free hand on the other, just wanted it for the equipment.”

“I’ve got to have the dinosaur then.” They set up hoops, Foggy reading through the instructions, whilst Matt tried to think of what to create. Standing up, he tracked down their dinosaur collection, hands running over them.

“Fogs, what sort of dinosaur are you making?”

“A green one.” He could sense the concentration, of Foggy tracing the pattern onto fabric. “It’s a stegosaurus!”

“That’s the one with the plates?”

“Yeah!”

Matt passed over that one, instead landing his hands on the diplodocus, a simpler shape, probably easier for his first attempt. Returning to his seat, he sat the dinosaur on the edge of the table, finding his hoop again.

“Next step, thread the needle.” Foggy quickly grabbed his thread, his colours predetermined from the kit, whilst Matt hovered over the pile left in his box.

“Any colours here I shouldn’t be using? What colours the fabric?”

“You’ve got white fabric there, hmm, there’s a couple of pale ones in your kit that probably won’t show up too well. I’d suggest purple, green or blue there from what’s left.”

“Purple? Fogs, can you-”

“Yeah, no problem, this one here.” He grabbed the purple thread, passing it over to Matt. “There’s two bits of paper wrapping it, according to these instructions if we hold the smaller one, and pull the loose thread, it should stay together.”

Silent concentration as they pulled the thread from the skeins, two quiet snips of scissors, and then simultaneous hunts for needles. Matt remembered the needles St Agnes had trusted him with, big plastic kid safe ones. Nothing like this, metal so fine he could barely track it, and six threads seeming impossible to thread through. So focused on his own attempts, he wasn’t paying attention to Foggy, not realising he was also struggling. The frustration grew, he should be able to do this, even after attempt after attempt failed.

“This shouldn’t be this hard, I’m reading the instructions again.” He heard paper rustling, Foggy reading it aloud to himself. “Needle threader. Oh that’s what you are.” And then a noise of success. “This is so much easier.” He passed the tiny tool over to Matt, whose face furrowed in confusion. “Pass that loop of wire through the needle and open it up, then pop the thread through and pull it back.”

Seconds later, they were both ready, needles threaded, patterns ready to follow. Foggy carried on with his run through of instructions. “Knot the end of the thread a couple of times, and then begin by bringing it up from the underside of the hoop, through the fabric.”

Matt found himself wishing he had more hands, as he tried to hold the needle, knot the thread, and not lose his hoop at the same time. But he got there, stabbing the needle up through where he thought he should start.

“Back stitch, for outlines. I suppose we start here then!” Foggy followed the instructions, narrating his actions as he went along. “Up through the fabric, along a centimetre or so, back down through to start. Go along under the fabric, before coming up, and then back down through the same hole as the first stitch. Repeat, following the pattern.” He glanced over at Matt, who’d followed, a small, neat line on his own fabric.

It seemed simple enough. Create an outline, follow the shapes, it was just like tracking a route. Running a hand over the dinosaur, noticing how to bend his line, smaller stitches on the corners, longer on a straight.

It was near silent in the apartment, the draw of metal and thread through fabric, the slow thump of Foggy’s heartbeat, a gentle sigh of breath. It was calming, repetitive motions, make the line, check the outline forming, compare to the diplodocus in front of him. A long slope of a back, down to a tail, a sharp corner and then back again. Pulling the fabric back tight as his movements loosened it, tightening the hoop.

Wanting to see how Foggy’s was growing as well, only hearing the same sewing sounds, the thread invisible against the fabric without touching it. He carried on with his own, before pausing, stabbing the needle through spare fabric, dropping the hoop into his lap. “How’s yours going Fogs?” Remembering his coffee, he took a sip, it had quickly cooled since they’d started sewing.

“Getting there, yours is looking good. Not far left on the outline?”

“Almost there. Can I see yours?”

“Oh, yeah.” Weaving his needle through the excess fabric, he passed it over, letting Matt see it, hands tracing the outline. A basic shape complete, and the start on the dinosaurs’ spines.

“It’s green, you said?”

“Yeah, green on white fabric.” Matt held it back out, Foggy taking it from him, and releasing the needle, to carry on. The slow movement of needle through thread enough to draw them both into a trance, relaxing, a chance to tune the world out. Matt likened it to meditation, just concentrating on the hoop in front of him, of following a shape.

And then far too soon it was finished, the ends joining up, leaving him lost on his next step. Foggy was still going, his more complicated, and so he set his own down for now. They’d missed lunch in all of this, and he could manage to rustle up something for them to snack on whilst they sewed. A platter of sorts, because what was the point in eating properly when they had nothing real to do. Returning to their table, a plate of food precariously balanced, he brought over drinks as well, poking Foggy to stop for a second. “Eat love, take a break before we spend all day on this.”

A brief break, before returning to their embroidery, the slow shapes of dinosaurs coming clearer, even as they taught themselves new stitches.

“French knots, these look interesting Matt. Good for texture.” Foggy had a go first, muttered instructions under his breath, slow, unsure movements. Bringing the needle up through the fabric, wrapping the thread around it, before dragging it back through, a small tiny knot forming. Another attempt, more practised, Matt listening in, trying to repeat the action, frustration as the thread slipped off the needle. A sigh, and then Foggy leant over, gentle hands guiding the thread, smoothing out Matt’s stress. “You got it, that’s it.” Repeated actions, each one more confident, as the needle slipped a little less often, and he concentrated on the dots littering the dinosaur’s back. A scatter of freckles down its neck, across its back, a few on the tail. Running his hands over the embroidery, noticing how unique the dots could be, almost like Braille.

Asking Foggy to find him the green thread, he set himself up with the new colour. Stitching a series of dots in the bottom corner, and filling around it with long straight stitches, for grass. Getting to a point of completion, a dinosaur surrounded by grass, dots down its back. His signature in the corner, details he could feel, a texture to run his hands across, colours and shapes that Foggy would appreciate.

A matching pair of dinosaurs, as Foggy showed how to finish the hoop, a running stitch around the back, a neat bow, fabric to hide the work behind. Looping some thread through the top of the hoop, talk of finding hooks to hang them on the wall, alongside their paintings from weeks before.

Swapping them, a chance to run his hands over Foggy’s piece. A stegosaurus, clearly defined plates on its back, dots filling in the belly. Similar long strands to the ones on his own, a foreground of grass, and in the corner, rough letters spelling out ‘Foggy’.

* * *

“We need to get out Matt. We’re allowed out, we can go and do something. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of being stuck in these walls.”

“So much so.”

“Okay. Do you trust me? Because I’ve been looking at things to do, that are covid safe. Outdoors, away from other people.”

“I do trust you, but that tone is worrying.”

“You know how to ride a bike, right?”

“Yes? I mean, I did when I was younger, and you don’t forget. But.” He gestured at his face. “Can’t exactly use a cane and ride a bike at the same time.”

“Tandem.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. It’ll be fun. Trust me.”

A taxi ride later, and they were stood in Central Park, as Foggy spoke to a bike rental stall. His voice muffled through his mask, as he signed something, probably their lives away, and handed over some money. Matt had pretended to ignore the guy patronisingly tell Foggy he needed to lead, who didn’t even try to speak to him, or want him to sign as well. He was just being responsible, standing his two metres away. At least it could just be on their heads if he fell off and broke something, he never signed any agreement of responsibility.

He was handed a helmet, and they were led round to the bikes, one pulled out to them. He folded away his cane, dropping it into his bag, Foggy instantly offering his own arm out for Matt to hold onto. The rental guy adjusted the bike, something with the seats, a hum as he worked. They pulled on their helmets, tightening straps, the plasticky fabric scratchy.

And then it was time for the torture, as Foggy guided him to his seat, finding the pedals with his feet, the bar to hold onto. The assistant holding it steady as Foggy climbed on as well, and directing them to push off at the same time. Then far too quickly they were moving, wobbly at first as they found their rhythm, then smoother, Foggy calling out as they went around a corner, Matt leaning in to it as well. Soon it was easy to just switch off, to just pedal and listen to the world as it rushed past him. Hear dogs barking in the park, families out for a walk, fellow cyclists. Overtaking walkers and joggers, a rush at being able to move that quickly, without worry. Foggy’s gentle descriptions, telling him about the things he couldn’t see.

“Matt, there is a dog over there, with a raincoat on. It’s not even raining, but it has a bright yellow coat on.”

“Ohh, there’s a cafe up ahead Karen was telling us about, they’re doing takeaways and apparently their cakes are to die for. Shall we stop?”

They rested, the bike laid on the ground in front of them, sipping from coffee in takeaway cups, a paper plate of shared cake between them. Chocolate, and Karen was right, beautifully rich and handmade.


End file.
